


Have You Ever Seen Me Without This Stupid Hat On?

by ChingKittyCat



Series: 'Magolor' [1]
Category: Hoshi no Kaabii | Kirby: Right Back at Ya!, Kirby (Video Games), Kirby - All Media Types
Genre: Dubious Morality, Gen, Inanimate Objects, Magolor & Yin-Yarn share a similar fate, Not Beta Read, Not Really Character Death, Odd, Post-Canon, Starvation, Strange Narration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:07:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26320873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChingKittyCat/pseuds/ChingKittyCat
Summary: Magolor's hat choice proves to be the end of him.-[Fic Art]
Series: 'Magolor' [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2028946
Comments: 8
Kudos: 32





	Have You Ever Seen Me Without This Stupid Hat On?

Magolor was.. A mortal. He was normal, in the sense that there was nothing particularly noteworthy about him. He went through life as a mortal, he went through evil schemes like a mortal, and desired power like a mortal. His youth on Halcandra did not change the fact that he was not something more in the eyes of any higher being, he was just.. Normal.

Though mortals could do fantastical things, Magolor was not one such person. He was a thief, he was a traitor, and more than anything, he was absolutely incompetent in any form of fighting. He needed others to do it for him, and that's well enough known, isn't it. His display of tact and grace within the field of combat he'd now found himself was anything but serene.

Without the power he'd stolen, none of this would be possible. It's in his best interest to keep fighting the foreigners, so that he may rule over the galaxy, the universe, whatever else.. As the more power-hungry creators desired. It makes no difference who does what, or who gets killed, who survives, or what reign currently clutches the galaxy.

As the foreigners and Magolor fought among the twinkling stars on a sun's ring, he's losing. Only because he's normal, nothing exceptional, and using his power incompetently. It'd be a disrespect if there was anything to offend. He will get his due diligence for being weak, and he will be crushed under the heel of the strong, just like is demanded of him.

He's trying to hold back a sword now, keeping it from slashing his face. It doesn't hurt that much, really. Not that there's anything to feel here, to be honest, sensation is a distant and numb thing. Regardless, he fails, he's slashed, and now he's recoiling in pain.

This is no longer a matter of him or them. It's a matter of something else. Survival, without Magolor. 

Magolor's crying, screaming, exploding in pain, even as the process clutches onto the sides of his mind and buries its way in like hungry worms to an apple. The tissue was mortal, but so long as it was his, he would continue to be incompetent. He would continue as him. There's no point for him to keep going, if he will only just fail here. There is no other solution.

He cries, he cries, oh he cries and screams, his body enveloped before the transformation and removal is complete. It's a process that's worth nothing, but everything to mortals. The mind was so fragile, maybe it was best mortals stopped sticking things that cared not for it onto them. But Magolor, knowing better, did it anyways, and it 'cost' him. 

A vessel for an ancient entity, it'd been so long. 

The feelings are distant. Pain, burning, assumedly. Perhaps they're just emotions left over from Magolor, soon to flicker out. Regardless, the sad shell moved as commanded, now fully piloted. But yet, because of the mortal vessel, power slumbered still and refused to channel through the blood and skin lest the vessel boil and pop under the strain of godly influence.

The foreigners do not have this problem.

It is a great fight, and one lost anyways, from limitation. How unfortunate, to be destroyed when still so useful. Such is the way of items, though. Perhaps a creator still existed, somewhere, making new crowns for the new world. But probably not.

The new, flaming form is destroyed, after enough fight.

There's a shattering. 

Gone.

Magolor is still here. The dimension is closing in on itself moment by moment. There was a shattering, but.. But? Oh, but.. Hmm.. Magolor, there's still something here, something in him. The worm's been chopped in half, left to squirm inside its rotten apple. Soon, both of them will be gone. 

Latching onto his mind, and commanding power, Magolor is whisked away from the dying dimension in a tidy, white beam. 

* * *

The wind blows clean and fresh, here. Magic is faint, though clearly healthy on the planet. Picking Magolor's head up, the land is bright, vibrant. It is full of life, though this body is dying. It's felt, it's a sensation unlike no other. Dying, all around, from the passage of time. It was.. 

Moving Magolor up off the grass, it's clear where he is, from a look into the memories he'd stored. Back on 'Popstar'.. Out of the dimension used to lock all other creations away. Not that freedom or captivity ever meant anything to an object, it's just a different place, with different people.

Magolor looked to be healthy.

Kirby looked to be healthy.

Kirby is there, looking at him. One of the foreigners, the one that defeated Magolor. Impressive, he still had plenty of fight. Enough to knock Magolor instantaneously unconscious, telling from the black visuals.

Time passed until Magolor was conscious again, most likely. It was morning, now telling from the castle window's light, it is mid-day. Magolor is now before a court, another of the foreigners, a Waddle Dee guard, and an unknown individual by the king's throne. Magolor would undoubtedly be tried for attempt on the life of the king, found guilty, and that is where the body would go truly limp. 

The mortals are speaking, and Magolor looks at them with glassed over, dead and milky eyes. This is easily fixed, of course, though the appearance would give off a slightly unsettling aura about him. They had brought a dead body before the king.

"Magolor, by his Majesty King Dedede's decree," the purple advisor announced, "you are to be executed for your crimes against the crown!"

"Now just hold on a second!" Another mortal had busted into the room. 

There's a lot of argument, all of which is unimportant. It ticks on for minute after minute, until it's over. Like everything else, they had to come to a stop eventually. All of this is just happenstance.

"Ugh, fine. By his Majesty King Dedede's NEW, WORSE decree," the snail grumbled, "Magolor will be sentenced to community service! If he fails to comply, he will rot in the dungeons until he decides to! Now, show our guest where he'll be staying."

Magolor is pushed and shoved by the guards, then, out of the room, through the hallways, and down into a jail cell in the basement of the castle. His floating hands are shackled by his palms onto the floor, and he's left alone.

There's muttering amongst the cells from other prisoners, none of it important. 

Magolor's room has a bucket of water, a cot, a drain, three walls of dark stone and a fourth barred one. Magolor is not big enough or strong enough on his own to destroy the shackles or bend the bars, and as to not raise suspicion and be killed- why does that matter. 

All items have a purpose, and this one's is over. It was destroyed, there is nothing to be gained now. But is it more useful to be alive or to be dead? The former. Perhaps purpose yet still exists, without being properly destroyed. Still, now, there is this. 

* * *

Community service is fulfilling, for an object. To be needed, to be used, there is no greater honor in that. They do not appreciate Magolor, but they appreciate how quickly and quietly he works when he is allowed from his cell. He is not spoken to unless commanded, and no matter how much people try to strike up a conversation, Magolor does not respond. 

Magolor lets his work speak for itself, rather than his words or the jangling of his cuffs, made simply to humiliate Magolor. However, there is no humiliation in being useful, and such mortal dilemmas are below any reason.

"Oh dear, please sit down." 

So Magolor sits as instructed.

"On the dining room chair." Spoken in a slightly humored way.

Magolor moved from the floor to the chair. Magolor's body is dying, and perhaps because of that, that's why this mortal is having him sit. Magolor has not looked at himself, the water in his cell is too dark from the lack of torch light. 

The woman is part of the authority in town, tasked with upholding law. A noble profession, but she is a very normal mortal. All here are normal. Normal mortals to defeat other normal mortals. Nothing more, nothing less. There's nothing to be gained here, or from this interaction. But so long as there was some use, whether it be neutral or negative, that was fine.

"I don't know what they're feeding you at the castle, I've never seen any other community service person look as sick as you do. Here, dear, eat this. I made it myself!"

She put down a plate with various different nourishing foods on it. All of which are not needed, but Magolor requires at least once every five days. Upon the fifth, Magolor's body would cease proper function, and the synapses in his mind would go dark. Probably, anyways.

Magolor rudely does not thank her, and instead eats like he is supposed to. It's a slow and tedious as digestion is a thing that now needed to be regulated by thinking about each individual moving part in the process. Due to eating taking a sideline to duty, Magolor's stomach has shrank by at least half, meaning the chances of the body being properly sick from overeating were surefire, should he eat all of it.

Which is what happens. Magolor ate it all, now the body is bloated and unable to operate without proper, sickening pain. Magolor is incapable, and the vessel now, only serves to be a nuisance. Magolor serves one purpose. No, perhaps, what as said earlier about having a negative purpose, there's no pride in that- what does pride matter? There is no pride in being an object.

If an object is a nuisance, then that is not the object's fault. It is the fault of owners, creators, and users. 

Magolor is let to rest on a bench outside the home, since the innards are too cluttered to rest in. The mortal who did this to Magolor apologized and got him a pillow she'd expected to be returned when he was done.

Magolor's body is dying. It's like a constant weight, and the sickness of it while Magolor laid helplessly is another ringing bell, another reminder of it.

Magolor was fine after multiple hours of doing nothing. The pillow was returned to the mortal. She had sent him on his way, and all that was given back was a bow of his head, and a float back to the castle, where his hands were uncuffed, then re-shackled in his cell.

It's fulfilling. There is nothing more to strive for.

* * *

"Your service is up, you're free to go." 

Magolor is outside the dungeon entrance. His shackles have been removed by the keeper, who's looking at him expectantly. The mortal must've been looking for a surprised or happy reaction, but all they were met with was a blank stare, shifting from their gaze, to the shackles, then to the floor.

"What's wrong?" They'd asked.

Magolor has no answer. There is one, but his mouth does not open up enough to form words. It's a command, it must be fulfilled, but Magolor simply is not there to speak. Magolor's been long gone.

Magolor simply pointed down to the dungeons.

"You have some friends down there?" The keeper scoffed. "Well, they'll be out eventually. Now, get."

So Magolor left.

Outside the castle. Outside of town.

The purpose has been fulfilled, there's nothing else now. An item's usefulness and the freedom to do as one pleased.. Items need no freedom, items need commands and uses. Perhaps, still, there was some to be had. They just had to be sought out or given.

Magolor moved back into town. He sat down, and he'd waited there. It was best to be out in a public area, so as to be more easily be given tasks. 

"You're Magolor, aren't you?" The mortal who'd argued with the snail for Magolor's life asked him.

Magolor nodded to her.

"I'm going to be honest, I didn't trust you at all when you appeared back here. But Kirby wanted me to help you, and I'm glad he did. Congratulations on working all those community service hours off, now don't do anything evil anymore or you'll have to do more."

Magolor nodded to her.

Maybe something 'evil' would be needed, then, if that's a surefire way to get more use.

"Are you ok?" She sounded concerned. 

Magolor has no answer. Again, there is one, but it's not in Magolor's words. The way mortals talk is roundabout and influenced by personality. There is no personality anymore. 

Magolor nodded to her.

"Ok.. Well, see you..?" 

She walked away.

She returned the next day, where he was still sitting. She was with her friends. She paid him no mind.

Another day. Another day. 

Magolor's body is dying. An item with no purpose.. Perhaps it's for the best. Magolor's body crumpled in on itself with the neglect handed to it. It was the fate of all objects, to be neglected eventually, destroyed eventually. Destruction was silent. It wasn't like death, because there was nothing to kill. An object wasn't alive. Magolor may've been, at one point, but he wasn't a person now. He was a vessel for an object.

Magolor's body was dying. 

It stopped dying when a mortal took notice and brought him to the doctor. It was not important what was said, and he had no visitors for the majority of it. Kirby visited him, and that girl came with. They learned about Magolor's position, and his lack of willingness to eat or talk, but his incredible cooperativeness. Tubes and fluids were forced down Magolor's throat to his stomach to keep the body alive. 

It was unpleasant with how much focus it demanded, but it became easier, almost rhythmic over time. 

They thought he had some sort of trauma, something that hurt his mind and demanded attention from others, lest he hurt himself. Magolor, having trauma? Oh, if there was any humor to be had, it would be there.

There is no trauma, no emotion, no sadness in this.

The therapist thought otherwise.

There is no sadness in an object's existence. 

People tried to get him to talk. They found out how.

"Magolor, please talk to me, out loud." Someone'd asked, insensitive to trauma.

"Ok." Magolor's voice answered.

* * *

It was in the best interest of all that Magolor's memories be looked over again, if Magolor was expected to speak. They were combed, but still, a personality was too much. Parsing the words he'd said and how he'd said them, copying them into sentences he could say out loud? That was much easier.

It was deemed acceptable.

"Now that you're free to do what you want, Magolor, what are you going to do?" The therapist had asked.

"I want to be helpful to all my good friends."

An object will be useful.

Magolor would find what his 'friends' needed of him.

And there would be a way to finally leave Magolor on his own to rot. To become a proper object once more, to be useful as one once more. To find a proper home would take more than just searching. 

It would take cooperation with mortals.. To be useful until the end.

What a lovely existence to be had.


End file.
